No One's Ever Died From a Scratched Knee
by TheFlyingWriter-01
Summary: He hadn't meant for anybody to get hurt, honest. They'd just been messing about – as boys do – but then there was a vase, and a push, and a crash, and /then/ there was blood on the carpet. (This is a Beatles Kid AU fic, and yeah, idk either LOL.)


He hadn't meant for anybody to get hurt, honest.

They'd just been messing about – as boys do – but then there was a vase, and a push, and a crash, and _then_ there was blood on the carpet. It was quite lucky (or perhaps very _un_lucky) that Brian was out in the garden, engrossed in conversation with that old lady next door about just how _well-behaved_ his boys were; a harried peek out of the window confirmed that he hadn't heard a thing.

"Not_ yet_, anyways," Ritchie mumbled, voice wavering as he tended to the injured boy.

George was surprisingly quiet. Well, maybe not surprisingly in general, but in such a situation. His hands were speckled with a few cuts, courtesy of the broken vase, but it was really his knee that had taken the hit. There was surely a gash in there somewhere, but without his glasses, all John could see was a giant red stain dripping down the tiny leg. It was the first time he'd ever been grateful for his poor eyesight.

"You're gonna be just fine, George," Paul said, kneeling on the other side of their fallen brother and grasping at the little injured hand. "We'll fix it; won't we, fellas?" He looked between Ritchie and John.

The latter looked away, while the former bit his lip.

When neither answered him, Paul went on. "I-I mean, we get roughed up all the time. We just have to do what Brian does, y'know?" He looked around. "Where's he gone and put the plasters?"

"…I think this is gonna need more than plasters," Ritchie said softly, but it was more to himself than it was to Paul.

"If all my blood falls out, am I gonna die?" George said suddenly, his voice surprisingly steady, like he'd already come to terms with his premature demise.

"O-of course not, Georgie," Paul said, trying to sound casual. "No one's ever died from a scratched knee, remember?" The others _did_ remember, because Brian said something just like it whenever one of them hurt themselves.

_No need for tears, Paul; no one's ever died from a bruised leg._

_It's only hurting to clean it, John; no one's ever died from a scraped elbow._

_There's nothing to worry about, Richard; no one's ever died from a splintered finger._

"Your blood won't all fall out, George. No one's ever died from a scratched knee, y'know?" Paul tried to assure him again, but nobody seemed convinced.

Any other injury they'd ever had suddenly seemed very trivial. They'd never seen so much blood, and _certainly_ never from one of their own. It might have only been a cut knee, but at that moment, death seemed entirely plausible.

"Hey, you're always using plasters, John. Where's Brian put 'em?"

John looked up, startled from his thoughts. "…What?"

Paul sighed, but he was too engrossed in rifling through the cabinets to meet John's gaze. "Don't you know where Brian keeps all the plasters?"

"Why should _I_ know?" John huffed, sounding more agitated than he'd realized he was.

"Well, you get roughed up most; that's all," Ritchie piped in, making John jump. He'd almost forgotten the other boy was there.

He shrugged, frowning. "I dunno. M'usually too busy being _hurt_ to notice."

"Here, take care'a George for a second, will ya?" Before John could respond, Ritchie was up and moving towards Paul, already advising him on where to look (which was high up – Brian was a lot taller than they were, after all). Having nothing else to do, John awkwardly sunk himself down beside George, who was still sitting quietly and staring at his wounded hands in lieu of his knee.

John wondered if he should say something. Ritchie had already been saying all the stuff adults said when you got hurt, like 'you're gonna be alright' and 'it'll be better before you know it,' so he couldn't say that. John _could_ tell him not to cry, but George wasn't even crying, so he couldn't say that either. He almost wished George _would_ cry, because it was unnerving to see him so nonchalant about it.

"…It was a grotty vase anyways," George said suddenly, and John blinked. "You did the table a favor by pushin' me into it. Now it's not got such an ugly hat to wear."

John might've laughed, if he wasn't sitting on a bloodstained carpet. "…I think all the lost blood's done you in, George," he managed to say. "You've gone and lost your head."

George looked at him, lips twitching. "I haven't." He peered at the vase. "It's better it's broken, don't you think?"

"Not if it's sliced you up like this," John said, his voice trailing off as he gestured to the injury.

"No one's ever died from a scratched knee, John," George teased.

"Well, how do you know?" John snapped in return, sounding angry even though he didn't quite feel it.

George paused. "…It's nice'a you to worry and all, but—"

"M'not worried," John interrupted quickly, but after he said it, he realized it was a lie. "M'just… I dunno… thinking. That's all."

There was a pause, and George, with a small smile on his face, thankfully didn't press anymore. "…M'not dead yet, anyway. Surely dying takes a long time, wouldn't it?"

John shook his head. "Not always. You might fall down dead in just a second, you know."

"Maybe, but maybe not." George shrugged, before pausing and looking at John. "Least I've got you lot with me. I don't think I'd want to be alone when I die." John didn't say anything for a moment, staring at George's hands so he wouldn't have to look at his face.

"…Does it hurt bad, then?" he said finally, gesturing at the knee but refusing to look.

George thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Sort of. Hurt worse before, but now it's just kinda… _tingly_." He wiggled his fingers at the last word, which normally would have earned him at least a snort. Instead, John was solemn.

"Tingly," the older boy repeated. "Like when you've sat on your leg too long?"

"Yeah, sort of. But only on me knee, not the whole leg."

There was another long pause, wherein it looked like John wanted to say something, but didn't. Finally, George pressed. "Alright, I know you've got something to say, so why don't you just say it?"

John looked up, but quickly looked away again, biting his lip. He shifted a few more times, but then finally spoke. "…I didn't mean for anybody to get hurt, y'know," he mumbled, almost inaudible. "…Was just messing around, that's all."

A beat passed before George replied. "Hey, s'not a big deal, John. It was an ac… an assi…" He frowned, then started over. "You didn't do it on purpose. So we're gear."

There was a moment of silence between them.

"Well, I did _push_ you on purpose," John said softly, lips beginning to turn up. "But only 'cause you were bein' an annoying git."

George punched the older boy in the arm, but he couldn't keep the smile off of his face either. "Well, I've picked it up from you lot, after all."

"Surely you mean Paul, right?" John teased, and George indulged him.

"Who else?"

They laughed, and as if on cue, Paul plopped down beside them, a handful of bandages in his fist. "We found 'em, see? Just like I said we would."

"You were looking for an awful long time," John said, feigning disappointment. "George could'a died by now, y'know."

Paul frowned. "No, he wouldn't. No one's ever died from a scratched knee, after all."

"How do you know?" John asked again, but this time his voice was laced with teasing rather than worry. He grinned at George, and George smirked back.

"_Because_," Paul huffed. "If someone did, it'd be in the news, wouldn't it?"

"Maybe it happened before the news," John smirked, and Paul frowned deeper.

"It _didn't_."

"How would _you_ know? You weren't even born yet."

"Just_ because_," Paul grumbled again. "Now stop _dissactering_ me so I can put these plasters on."

John shoved Paul's shoulder, feigning indignation. "How dare you; I'm not disatterin' anybody!"

"…Do you lads mean _distracting_?" Ritchie piped in, hands already long at work on George's knee.

"We know words, Ritchie," Paul said matter-of-factly. "I've heard Brian say it. Disser… disteratting."

Ritchie shook his head and sighed, then looked at George. "Give us yer hands, now, George. They'll need plasters as well."

George shook his head. "No, they're fine. S'just my knee that's hurt."

"Alright," Ritchie consented, "but you'll have to wash them very well. Otherwise they'll—"

"I will, I will," George nodded, already trying to stand. He smirked. "See, look, John. S'just like we said. I haven't died at all."

"Well, a'course you haven't," John huffed, quickly standing and moving to the window. "No one's ever died from a scratched knee, you know."

"That's right!" said Ritchie excitedly, climbing back onto the counter to put the bandages away. "Just like Brian says!"

"What are we gonna do about the carpet?" George said softly, wiping a hand across the trails of blood that had dripped down his leg. It only smeared the substance across his skin.

"Well… what cleans blood?" Paul wondered aloud.

"Forget _cleaning_ it," John scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. "Let's just get _rid_ of it."

Paul rolled his eyes. "Brian'll notice if the carpet's gone. It's rather big, after all."

"Just say it was stolen, then."

"I don't want to lie," Ritchie muttered, handing George a damp cloth with which to clean his leg.

"You won't have to," John reasoned. "I'll do it."

The other three exchanged glances, but before they could come to a conclusion, a towering figure rounded the corner and abruptly stopped at the sight of them.

"…What are you boys doing?" Brian asked, raising an eyebrow as he adjusted the sleeve of his coat. John and Paul moved in front of the stained carpet in a perfectly synchronized motion, but it was of little use, because said movement left the broken ceramic entirely visible.

"Oh, not Ms. Rolper's vase," Brian sighed, moving past the children to collect the pieces. "…What have I told you boys about playing in the house?" He sighed again, and shook his head. "…It's a good thing none of you cut yourselves on this."

At the very suspicious silence, Brian looked up. All four boys were staring anywhere but at him, and his gaze landed on one haphazardly bandaged knee.

"Oh, _boys_," he said wearily, standing and moving among them. He kneeled beside George and gestured to his leg. "…Did this happen today?" he asked, though all four of them knew that he already knew the answer.

They all nodded as one.

"You should have called for me," Brian said, looking disappointed. "You could have been very hurt, you know."

"We didn't want you to be upset," Paul said quietly.

"Yeah, and we didn't mean to break that ugly old vase," John said quickly after. "Or hurt anybody."

"We're sorry," Ritchie added.

"...Well, I _am_ upset," Brian clarified after a pause, glancing back at the shattered vase. "That was a gift from Ms. Rolper."

The boys all stared down at the ground.

"Still," Brian went on, sighing again. "I'm much more concerned about you boys than one little vase. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to any of you." He paused, glancing at the vase again, allowing an amused sigh. "…And I suppose it... didn't match the rest of the furniture anyway."

The boys timidly met Brian's gaze, then smiled. George tugged on Brian's tie. "Hey, Eppy."

Brian smiled softly. "Yes, George? Are you alright?"

"I'm fab. Just wondering if I'll get a scar, is all."

Brian blinked wearily. "I don't know. I'm afraid I can't see the damage beneath all of the bandages."

"I can take 'em off to show you, if you like."

"That's quite alright. Please leave them where they are."

"He's gonna be alright now, yeah? Since we put a bunch of plasters on him," Paul asked, clutching at George's shoulder. The younger boy didn't shrug him off like he usually did.

"Of course he will," Brian said matter-of-factly. "No one's ever died from a scratched knee, after all."

A beat passed, and then all four of the boys started giggling to one another. Brian didn't exactly understand why, but he watched them in amusement all the same. "You know what?" he said, moving to stand. "I think this mess can wait. What do you say we have some dinner?"

The boys cheered and raced from the room, ignoring Brian's horrified scream about "_The carpet!_"


End file.
